


War of the Silver Birch

by tzigane, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Florists, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Ridiculous, reposting stuff so old I can't recall the original date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:02:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29336496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzigane/pseuds/tzigane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: Puddlejumpershad been in business for three long years. John had chosen a small town to work in because he wanted to be able to work at his own pace once he left the military. He was easy-going and he'd learned to like the smaller towns when he was travelling with his folks. His dad had been a colonel in the Air Force and they'd moved around a lot. It had given him an idea of what he wanted, the life he was interested in having, so he'd picked a little town within a couple hours drive of a major airport and let it go at that.He hadn't expected competition.It made sense, sure, that there was another florist at the place, and one in the town over, but there was competition and then there wascompetition, bitter, biting challenges and stealing customers.McKay'swas a picky, haute couture sort of flower store, and his assistant was a huge burly man with dreadlocks and a glower that was worse than McKay's stare.
Relationships: Rodney McKay/John Sheppard
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	War of the Silver Birch

John Sheppard was a florist.

Not just any florist, mind; he was the crème de la crème, cream of the crop, the ace in the hole, the...

"John, I believe we are out of silver birch."

The guy who was so totally screwed if he didn't get in a shipment of flowers shortly, because he had a wedding tomorrow and no silver birch to go with the black Baccara and Polianthes arrangements.

How they had run out was anyone's guess. He could have sworn he'd laid in enough silver birch to last until the end of winter, even though they'd been using a lot of it. Vintage was in, and the birch went well with that. A quick spray of glitter glue and it was perfect, striking, eye-catching.

Oh, God. He was so very much a dead man.

 _Puddlejumpers_ had been in business for three long years. John had chosen a small town to work in because he wanted to be able to work at his own pace once he left the military. He was easy-going and he'd learned to like the smaller towns when he was travelling with his folks. His dad had been a colonel in the Air Force and they'd moved around a lot. It had given him an idea of what he wanted, the life he was interested in having, so he'd picked a little town within a couple hours drive of a major airport and let it go at that.

He hadn't expected competition.

It made sense, sure, that there was another florist at the place, and one in the town over, but there was competition and then there was _competition_ , bitter, biting challenges and stealing customers. _McKay's_ was a picky, haute couture sort of flower store, and his assistant was a huge burly man with dreadlocks and a glower that was worse than McKay's stare.

Frankly, John was amazed that they didn't scare away every customer within a three hundred mile radius. Instead, _McKay's_ seemed to invite customers in the same way _Puddlejumpers_ did. People drove down from the capital and paid exorbitant prices to have Rodney McKay yell at them and tell them what flowers they could and couldn't have. He'd seen more brides crying on their way out of the shop across the street than he could count.

The problem was that if they didn't get a shipment today, he'd have to go next door to ask for the silver birch. His own assistant would make him.

Teyla was mean like that.

He didn't even want to have to say 'boo' to McKay. The guy was an egotistical bastard, and John would rather pull out his teeth than listen to him gloat about planning ahead and being ready for all occasions. Or Occasionals. Or pretty much anything, actually. McKay spent every morning sitting on the front porch of the giant white-columned house that passed for a shop, drinking coffee and smirking at John's much smaller business. It wasn't that McKay did more business. It was just that he could afford to make it all fancy, whereas John didn't have whatever it was that McKay did backing him.

Dammit.

The backing made it look like a better place. It was a psychological thing, John guessed, that people looked for a guy who'd yell at them and tell them what they actually wanted. It would have been easier to be snippy about it if McKay's work hadn't been good at all, but it was great. That, that was what pissed off John Sheppard the most. It stood up to his own, and that made for all-out war in his book.

The fact that they were two of the only three gay men in town didn't help a whole lot, either.

Okay, so John hadn't expected Whitefall to be a center of gay culture or anything, sure. It wasn't like he'd been all out and proud, either, being ex-military, but he was a _florist_ , for God's sake. Him, McKay, and Carson Beckett, who ran the confectionary across town and made wedding cakes for most of the town. It just wasn't right.

"John. We are out of silver birch," Teyla repeated, and he banged his head on the front counter.

"Call and see if that shipment's going to come in today, would you? I don't wanna have to go across the street, Teyla."

"You do not want to, but there is want and there is must, John. I have already called. There has been a delay. Due to... a blizzard." She said it slowly, like she was savoring his inevitable doom. God damned weather. If it wasn't volleying around the price of flowers for his arrangements, it was screwing with their shipping.

Sometimes, all John wanted to do was give up, shut down, and move to Alabama, the land of infinitely large weddings and funerals, where everybody needed flowers all the time and there was no McKay. Knowing his luck, McKay would follow him just to piss him off. "Great." Just great. He was going to have to go next door and grovel.

John hated groveling.

Especially to McKay.

The guy named his store after himself -- what kind of egotistical bastard named their stores like that? "We need the silver birch. You _will_ go and speak to him."

Sometimes, too, he suspected she did it on purpose in some sick plan to get them to hook up. As if he was going to fall for McKay because they shared a sexual preference.

Ha! No way. He hated McKay way too much. Not only had he impinged on John's business (okay. Maybe not so much, because John had been way busier than a one-armed peg legged paperhanger), but, _but_! He had plenty to say about John. It'd almost be better if he said it behind his back, but he chose to say it to his face instead.

Bastard.

"I'm going, I'm going," John grumbled, giving a heavy sigh. McKay would so make him pay through the nose, one way, or another.

Either he'd charge John something exorbitant, or he'd just rub it in his face for the next month or five that John Sheppard didn't care about his business enough to plan ahead like any smart businessman would. Never mind that the damn idiot bride had changed her mind three times about the flower, and what she wanted, and the wedding had quadrupled in size inside of, oh, a _week_.

"Sooner begun is sooner finished," Teyla called from the back room, and John smacked his head on the front counter one more time before he got up and headed for the door.

This was so very much going to suck.

He made sure to slam the door behind him, the bells tied to the inside of the door clanking unhappily instead of the usual musical tingle. Even the damn bells knew it was a bad idea, and it took everything in John's mind not tot treat it like a black ops mission. The urge to sneak over to _McKay's_ dressed in camis and trying to slip past Ronon was probably a death wish, though.

Instead, he marched over and pushed open the door, listening to the delicate electronic charms that sang out some kind of tinkling Chopin as he walked inside. "McKay!" he yelled when he didn't see the man right off. "I know you're in here!"

"Oh, for the love of -- Sheppard! What the hell is wrong with you? I'm a little busy, so whatever your paranoid delusion is, it can wait!" He was calling from the back of the place, where he probably wasn't furiously at work putting together arrangements. No, he was most likely reading a newspaper, or in the bathroom jerking off to thoughts of Ronon's abs.

The notion alone made John's teeth grind.

"I need a favor!" Whether he wanted it or not, John figured, stomping over silky hardwood floors and heading in the direction of McKay's voice. Bastard, bastard, bastard. "UPS is running behind!"

"Oh no, whatever will I do? Oh, wait -- I'm not the one waiting for the UPS truck, am I?" No, dammit, he was dressed. John could see Rodney's back as he turned a tight corner, bent over one of the worktables with ribbon twisted around his fingers.

He could feel his jaw clench. There was nothing erotic about those fingers or that ribbon, and even if there was, he wasn't about to admit it, even to himself. "Silver birch. I have a bride who's changed her mind six times, and then had a sudden increase in guests and a need for more arrangements. I also have no UPS delivery. Can you help me or not?"

"What do I get out of helping you?" McKay straightened up, which meant that his ass was no longer pleasantly thrust out at John.

Thank God. John was an ass man, and most of the time, he had a hard time keeping his eyes off of the SOB's rear end.

"What would you like?" John asked through clenched teeth. "I'll return the silver birch when it comes in, and then I'll owe you one."

"See, but I don't want you to owe me one. I mean, when would I need a favor from you? Oh, I know -- if I ever want a ride in the most beat up pickup truck that a redneck town has ever seen!"

"Hey!" John _loved_ that truck. It was a '69 Ford F100 that he worked on in his spare time, and it was perfect, dammit. Okay, so maybe it still needed a few things, but it was _vintage_ , and sometimes those things were a little difficult to find in the right color and in good shape. "I wouldn't let you in my truck!"

"That's good, because I'm not particularly interested in getting another tetanus shot just for the pleasure of listening to off key country music. I want a tangible assigned to this _I owe you_ of yours," Rodney muttered, wrapping the ribbon idly around his hand.

Great. Just great. "Okay, so define what tangible you want, McKay." John managed to say it without gritting his teeth too badly. Mostly.

"I'm not sure whether I prefer a written apology, or maybe for you to change your hair color." McKay canted his hips to the side slightly, leaning against the table's edge. "You'd look good as a redhead."

God, John hated him. Hated, hated, hated. "I'll go next door write now and write you all the apologies you want. TWO. I'll call _Tiers of Joy_ and see if Beckett will make something special just for you. But I'm not dying my hair, McKay!"

"Red head," Rodney taunted. "You'd look great, and I'm sure all of the ladies would love it."

Like McKay didn't know how much John hated that, too. "I'm not messing with my hair just for a little silver birch, McKay! Not unless it's fresh and I can _beat you with it_."

"Oh, it's fresh, but I'm not letting you run wild with whatever kink turns your fancy," Rodney snapped. "You need it that badly? You can damn well beg."

"I'm willing to beg!" Honest to God, he was. He just wasn't willing to go redheaded. No way. "Whatta you want, McKay? You want me on my knees or what?" Okay, so giving him that idea was almost certainly not the best thing John had ever done, but it was a hell of a sight better than dying his hair red.

"Yeah, I want you on your knees." Rodney pointed downwards, waiting for it, apparently.

Reluctantly, John dropped down onto the floor, prettily bringing up both hands into a pleading position. "Pervert," he muttered, but he still fluttered his lashes. "Please, sir, may I have some silver birch?" He was so completely sneaking into McKay's back garden to blow up some rose bushes in the middle of the night.

"There, was that so hard?" McKay turned his back, and god, his ass was so close John could almost lean out and bite it. But then he was walking off, twisting away from John, headed for where he kept the silver birch. Smug bastard.

Seriously, if John ever actually had that ass in his possession, he'd probably spend most of his time and efforts beating it to try and keep his blood pressure down. Probably.

"Yes."

"It's not my fault that you're a loser who can't plan for shit, Sheppard," McKay called out to him.

"Hey!" John protested loudly, crawling up off of his knees. They both cracked. He really was getting too old to be kneeling on the floor without a pillow. It was all that running, he figured. "I planned, she just came up with a sudden doubling of my plans yesterday. I hate brides." Not as much as he hated McKay, but it was a close call.

"We all hate brides, but that's why _I'm_ always prepared, because women are crazy." He said it in such a 'duh', voice, too, like John should have been ready for that little fact of life. "Women, crazy. The sky? Appears as a shade of blue, generally, if you've noticed." Then McKay stepped out of the back area, a bundle of silver birch in hand.

Great. Nowhere near enough, but he'd take what he could get. He wasn't getting back on his knees, and he definitely wasn't going to dye his hair for McKay's amusement. "Thanks. Much."

"You're welcome. Now stop darkening my doorstep and get back to your shoddy little building." Oh, god, he couldn't even just gloat quietly, he still had to get in a dig.

John managed to give him a smirk that hopefully came across as insolent. "No problem, McKay. I'll take my objectionable hair and my silver birch and go." That declared, he turned and slouched towards the door.

He hated that man. He hated that man intensely, deeply enough that his stomach twisted at the thought of ever having to ask another favor of him, even though he was sure it'd happen. Because John never had the good luck, and all the shitty things happened to him instead of someone who deserved it.

He wondered if he could get Beckett to bake McKay a black tombstone cake and send it over. Maybe one filled with blood red cherry ooze.

Yeah.

With a spring in his step, John crossed the street. Sounded like a plan to him.

* * *

"Can you believe the nerve of that man?"

Ronon could hear McKay before he ever made it into the back of the shop, but there was nothing new about that. It was the nature of the guy. Sometimes, he thought McKay could probably be heard four or five miles away. Ronon enjoyed working with him, though. He pretty much said what he thought, was good at what he did, and okay, maybe he was a pain in the ass to paying customers and the guy next door, but he was a pretty good boss. When he wasn't bitching about almost everything, anyway.

Ronon had had worse bosses. Worse bosses who paid less and seemed to think that a straight guy couldn't tell the difference between a chrysanthemum and a tulip. Rodney had looked through his portfolio, had him create a _'wintery bouquet -- yes, just humor me. Winter, not Christmas. I want to think of crisp frosted mornings after a snow, not reindeer'_ , and then had hired him on the spot.

He very seldom questioned Ronon's taste in arrangements, or Ronon's sexuality, and that made for an otherwise comfortable working environment except for the bitching and the fact that Rodney McKay was obsessed with perfection.

Most of the time, Ronon could live with it. McKay bitched all the time, so it was just a matter of tuning it out. Sheppard from over at _Puddlejumpers_ seemed to set the bitch level to mega wattage, though, and the feeling was pretty mutual. It was a shame, because Ronon got along just fine with Teyla, Sheppard's assistant. She was nice, and they got together to talk shop every couple of weeks. She'd just been at the back door borrowing some silver birch, actually, not that Ronon was about to tell McKay that. Instead, he just grunted, and shifted the Hypericum in the arrangement around the creamy magnolia. That had been a hell of a fight. He could still remember how the bride had cried when McKay had asked her who the hell wore yellow dresses for a December wedding and demanded that she change it to better suit his vision.

The worst part was that he had a point. They got winter where they were, cold, hard, liable to cancel a wedding because the airports shut down due to winter, and she wanted the poor bridesmaids -- poor, because Ronon could count on one hand the number of weddings he'd done flowers for where the women weren't miserable in their dresses, or deluding themselves about how hot they looked -- to wear what was really a god-awful shade of yellow.

In the end, it had been beautiful, but her wedding planner should have been the one to beat some sense into her, not McKay. Even if he was right.

"What's he done this time?" Ronon asked, as if he didn't know. Teyla was a pretty smart woman. She'd sent Sheppard in to distract McKay so the two of them could take care of business. It worked a lot easier that way.

"Idiot showed up begging for silver birch because he has the preplanning skills of a mentally handicapped goldfish! He lets those women push him around!" As if that was the real problem at hand.

The real problem was that the two of them hissed and scrapped like horny tomcats after the same pussy in heat; problem was that there wasn't any kitty they were interested in -- just one another. "Yeah, well. He's got his way, you've got yours." Keeping the smirk off his face was difficult. Somehow, he managed.

"His is wrong," Rodney reiterated snappishly. "Have you seen my unwired diamond ribbon, by the way?"

"Front left cabinet. The one you've got those elephant things in." With the raised trunks. Ronon thought they were pretty tacky, but every woman who came in cooed over them. "In the bottom half." McKay didn't know where anything was.

"Oh! Good, great." That was McKay's flaw, Ronon supposed. He had ribbon for every occasion, every mood, in both wired and unwired -- because some flowers called for the natural drape, and others needed whimsical stand up bows and ribbons, but only when Rodney thought so. Ronon preferred a mix for a more varied look to his arrangements, especially the ones he'd been putting together for some big funeral in two days. Some guy, big in the local business scene. Ronon had been busy mixing sprigs of Kangaroo Paw in amongst black-edged calla lilies, wrapping hard-edged silver around the edges and tracing slick black satin in between the stems. Textures, Ronon thought, were pretty good. Sheppard was a textured guy. Funny that McKay liked Ronon's arrangements, but didn't like Sheppard.

Well. Okay. It wasn't that he didn't like Sheppard, Ronon figured. It was more that he didn't like the fact that he liked Sheppard. That made Rodney the strangest gay guy Ronon had ever met. John Sheppard was hot, good looking enough that even Ronon noticed, and he was generally a nice kind of guy. There was no logical reason for McKay to hold that grudge. It was reaching the point where Ronon was starting to think he needed to get together with Teyla and figure out what to do with the two of them, just to try and get their pain-in-the-ass attitudes over and done with.

Well.

That or make the town explode.

One or the other.

"Hey! Didn't we have more of the silver birch somewhere!?"

"Nope," Ronon said, and went back to his arrangement.

Things just worked out easier that way.

* * *

One day, he'd understand Ronon's urge to socialize.

It wasn't as if it was a bad thing, but Rodney was his boss, and employees and bosses didn't usually go out drinking, even in a small town. At least, they didn't in Rodney's head. But Ronon seemed to think that they did, so there they were, listening to an only somewhat god-awful band. It was a local band, too, and not one of the ones that had a chance in hell of ever getting a good recording deal, no. They were a group that clearly had the exact correct lack of talent to be doomed to eternity playing in small bars in the same two hundred mile radius.

He was fairly sure that it was a quantifiable level of suck. If he could just work on the equation enough, he'd probably be able to define it, even. 

The band crept from _'Play That Funky Music'_ and into _'I'm Goin' Straight to Hell'_ , and Rodney got up and headed to the bar. Some things just required a little more liquor, in his opinion. Ronon seemed to enjoy it, even singing along, but Rodney really needed another of those green drink-things that they made for him. Whatever they were, they were very sweet, almost covering the taste of the alcohol altogether, and the bar staff swore that there was absolutely no citrus anywhere in the drink whatsoever.

He'd made sure to teach Ronon how to use an Epipen anyway.

It was almost a necessity in his field of work -- weddings were about scents and essential oils even if the brides didn't know it consciously themselves, with Satsuma body crËmes that made Rodney's nose itch, all the way to that one supplier who'd soaked the stems of carnations in a water and citrus juices mixture because he was, oh, crazy.

That was the real reason, not fruited drinks, that Ronon knew how to use Rodney's Epipen, and Rodney carried two on his person. Still, if there was citrus in the drink, he was going to sue if he survived.

 **SUE**.

Actually, he figured he ought to sue them for the god-awful music. The last time he'd seen Ronon, he'd been dancing in a giant awkward kind of way with that woman from _Puddlejumpers_ , as if Rodney didn't know that she came to the back door to deal with Ronon while she sent pretty boy Sheppard to distract him. The damning, shameful part, he thought, wandering out the side door and into the chill night air, was that it worked. It worked because he was desperate, Rodney supposed -- after all, Sheppard was a poor planner, yes, impulsive, yes, and ex-military, which conjured up a handful of hate in Rodney's head without any extra information needed, but he was also good looking with a decent grasp of the mechanics of design.

Even if he did let his customers stomp all over him and cause some inadvertently hideous commissions.

Mostly, he managed to avoid that.

It was probably all of the prettiness.

"What're you doin' out here, McKay?"

Speak of the devil, and who should appear? Well, think of him, perhaps. Despite the frosty coolness, Sheppard was draped over a seat in the gazebo, drink in hand, a... was that a tablecloth he was using as a blanket?

"Getting a little air. It's a cesspool of bad cover tunes and questionable liquor in there. Why are you wearing the decor?" He stepped towards Sheppard, eyeing the brightly colored red and white check.

"Because it's cold, and the wind coming across the water's not exactly welcoming." Well, yes, there was that. The restaurant-cum-bar was built at the edge of a lake, and the back room where the dance floor and the stage resided had been built over the water on piles. The gazebo sat firmly in the middle of what was actually a big round dock that the restaurant used for outside parties and the like. "The door's locked, and getting anybody's attention in that noise is kind of a bitch."

Just as John said that last sentence, Rodney twisted and realized with dawning horror that the door had just closed behind him. "Why didn't you say anything?! Now I'm locked out here, too! What kind of moron are you?"

"A cold one." Well. At least he didn't argue the moron part. Then again, he'd probably become accustomed to dealing with Rodney and his various issues. "They'll check out here before they close down, and Teyla'll miss me. Eventually." Sheppard reached an arm out and grabbed his beer bottle, taking a swig before huddling beneath the blanket again. "I so hate you, you know. You sent that bitchy bride to me yesterday."

"It's not my fault you don't have a spine," Rodney snapped, folding his arms over his chest. It was cold out there. His good leather jacket, the one with the nice thick lining, was over the back of his chair in the god-forsaken bar. "She didn't want my advice, so I just passed her along. I have no tolerance for women with bad taste."

He could almost hear Sheppard's jaw clench. "Oh, screw you very much, McKay. Asshole." He shifted and brought the flannel tablecloth more tightly around him. "You haven't got any tolerance for anybody. Besides. I sent her over to Carter's place, so she could curse both of us."

Mmm, Carter. Hot, for a dumb tasteless blonde who let idiot brides dance up and down her back.

"Hey, I tolerate Ronon just fine! Anyway, it's not my fault you have no backbone. I've seen some of those women you do take. It's a wonder their husbands don't run screaming in terror at what bridezilla has wrought on the wedding decor."

Sheppard was eyeballing him, curling up a little more tightly beneath the tablecloth. "I'm not sure you have the right to call anybody bridezilla, McKay. You're Florzilla." He promptly snickered at the thought. He must have had more beers than the one sitting there.

It made Rodney wonder if he was nesting on beer bottles. "Funny, coming from the drunk man wearing the table cloth. I'm sure that joke was much funnier in grade school." He did wander closer, though, folding his arms tightly over his chest.

"I thought it was pretty funny." John leaned back and gave him that charming smile, the one that always made Rodney want to toss him back and push his knees up to his ears. "I've heard it a time or six. Working on the tractors in FFA kind of made up for the floral arranging class. They all thought I was in it for the girls." He nodded knowingly.

"And you were in it for your love of flowers and your repressed love of cock, yes yes. I've heard that story a hundred times." Rodney waved one hand slightly, and pulled a chair up. Maybe if he compressed his body mass, and got out of the wind, he could warm up.

"Hey! I never repressed my love for cock! I just indulged it in a quieter way than some people I could name, Florzilla." Apparently that insult was terribly amusing to a drunken Sheppard, because he gave a snort of laughter that would have done a jackass justice. Oh, wait. He _was_ a jackass.

No wonder Sheppard's noises did him justice so well.

"Are you trying to imply that I had it tattooed to my forehead? Because I at least have standards, something you don't seem to have in your work, so you probably don't have it in your social life."

"Oh, as if you even have a social life!" The flannel tablecloth hit the gazebo floor as Sheppard stood up. "Like you've been laid any time in the last ten years, McKay, with a personality like yours!"

"The last time I was laid was a hell of a lot sooner than the last time your skinny ass got nailed!" It had been too long for Rodney's tastes, but he preferred intelligent to sculpted and vapid. Sometimes, that made for dry spells.

Sheppard smirked. "Ha! You've been watching my ass for months. Like you'd get to nail it, skinny or not!"

"Oh, like I'd want to nail it! You're probably crawling with STDs, so..." Rodney shook his head sharply, crossed his arms over his chest.

For a second, Rodney honestly thought that Sheppard would get angry, yell at him. He was a little surprised when laughter was the result instead. "Seriously, McKay. Never heard of condoms?" He snickered further.

"Never heard of condoms breaking?" Rodney shot back snappishly, squirming his arms tighter around his chest.

"You're just jealous because you think I get laid more often than you do, and because you'd like me to fuck your hot round ass."

"Emphasis on the think, because clearly you haven't gotten laid more than I do, and you think my ass is what?" His voice tipped up a little, hunching in on himself more, before he sat down.

"Hot. Round. Ass." Sheppard gave a slow, steady spread of his mouth. "It's a shame your mouth tends to fuck things up for you when it's so completely fuckable."

What, what the -- fuck, and the worst part of it was that Sheppard's mouth was beautiful, his teeth attractive, the kind of face a guy could daydream about what his orgasm would look like. "As if I would ever want a chance with you. I have taste, which is more than I can say about your table-cloth wearing self."

John reached down and snagged the flannel tablecloth with his fingers, tilting his hips as he stood in a way that made Rodney want to gibber, damn him. "Yeah, well. Taste versus freezing off a gorgeous ass like that? No question of it. It's a shame," he said again. "You're probably a sucky lay anyway."

"Fuck you. I'm a great lay. My last boyfriend stalked me after I broke it off because he missed the sex that badly," Rodney blurted.

"Oh, yeah, right. You'd have to prove that." God, Rodney hated that smirk!

"You just want what you can't have. And you can't have it," Rodney snapped. "No matter how goddamned hot you are, with your smirk, and your swagger, and that hair..."

The hair alone screamed _gay, gay, gay_. How Sheppard had managed to get into the Air Force and stay there for longer than, say, _thirty seconds_ seemed right next to impossible.

"Oh, yeah? You think I can't have it?" The lap of John's tongue made Rodney's pulse speed up immeasurably. Long, lean, gorgeous, and he was sauntering Rodney's way, dropping the oxford he had on over his t-shirt with the tablecloth. "I think I can have it. I think you want it, even if you hate my guts."

Oh. Oh, God. There were fingers on the fly of his jeans. Rodney was going to die.

"Fuck you." Except that he didn't mean it, he wanted John's fingers there, wanted to touch him and at least appreciate his beautiful body, even if he was obnoxious as fuck. But he wanted it on his terms.

Oh, fuck. Flash of smile and a hand, oh, there was a hand, and the way John was rubbing him through his boxers made Rodney's breath stutter. "Generally I'm the one doing the fucking, McKay, and you've got a great ass for it."

"And where did you get the idea that I didn't want to be on top? Maybe you just need to be shown how it's done properly." Rodney reached to push John again, but it was less of a push and more grabbing at his arms. His strong, amazingly well muscled arms. Rodney had always had a weakness for arms...

"You think you're the man to do it? I dunno, McKay. I mean, you've got a mean twist with a ribbon, and it's a bitch to get past the thorns, but I'll bet you're rose petal soft on the inside. Bet you love it, fingers fucking into the heat of that sweet ass of yours..." So what if Sheppard's voice was a little slurred? Frankly, Rodney had drunk one too many martinis himself. Bad judgment? Maybe. Maybe, but he thought he'd pretend it wasn't and that he was sober enough it wouldn't -- didn't -- matter.

He hoped.

"I should have thorns installed." What was the harm? It wasn't as if they had a good working relationship, or it could make their relationship any more bizarre. The only risk was the two of them getting arrested for having sex on the back dock of the local bar on bad local music night.

"Yeah. Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd think it'd keep me out, but you should know something, McKay." Sheppard smelled like beer and smoke and some barely-there aftershave that always made Rodney's knees a little weak, the bastard. His tongue darted out, lapped along the outer shell of Rodney's ear before he whispered, "I really love it when you're feisty."

He was in trouble. The last man he'd been with had thought the same, which meant that they were willing to put up with him longer than most people, which meant, which meant that, fuck he couldn't help but turn his head, because the tongue against his ear just made him shiver all the way down to his balls. It didn't help because his lips were on John's jaw, and he loved the faint scrape of stubble, the taste of skin. He was done for.

Done in.

Oh, fuck he hoped Sheppard kept condoms in his pocket.

"We've been fighting since you showed up, bought that big house and went to work," John moaned, jacking him slowly. "God, I've hated you, wanted to bend your ass over that counter and fuck you where anybody might walk in and see it, see how good you looked, how hot you'd be, and tight, bucking me, trying to get me off and get me _off_...."

His voice was right there, right against Rodney's ear while he tasted, kissed at the side of John's jaw. "Condoms. Tell me..." Fingers pressed hard at the base of his dick, and he pressed his hips up hard against John's hand. "Tell me you have them."

"And lube. I've got lube," John groaned, and his hand was sliding around, the other one slipping into the back of Rodney's jeans to clutch at his ass cheeks. They were grinding together, and oh, God, if he had known this was going to be so hot, he'd have stopped sniping and making John beg ages ago.

Okay, so no, he really wouldn't have, but Jesus, fuck, it was good.

He could make him beg in new ways, and snipe in new ways, because he had a taste for fingers touching like that, for John's free hand clutching that hard at his ass. "Fuck. We can't, can't do this out here, we should..."

"Go back in through the locked door where everybody's drunk and dancing to the bad band? Nobody's paying any attention. It's quiet and dark and there's stars and picnic blankets." There was a tongue doing things to that one spot where Rodney's jaw met his throat, soft and sensitive, and he could feel his knees going weak. "Nobody's gonna notice."

Who would notice?

"And lube and condoms," Rodney groaned. If his knees went weak, fell out from under him, he'd miss all the fun and wouldn't get to feel the slow slide of tongue right over nerves, up to the junction of his jaw and neck where it twinged in anticipation of the sensation. "Fuck. Please, now..."

"Yeah. Yeah," John agreed, and why had they been fighting so long again when they could have been doing this? Sheppard's hands were pushing at his jeans, and they were around his knees, and before Rodney knew it, he was on the floor of the gazebo with the flannel tablecloth underneath him. Sheppard was pulling at him, hands sliding everywhere, just getting them undressed enough because it was fucking cold, and oh. Oh. Oh GOD, finger, finger, and a thumb rubbing back behind his balls. Oh God.

He'd missed sex. He'd missed sex like that, fingers everywhere sex, sex where his balls were pulled up tight to his body from the start because the foreplay was that hot, sex where he squirmed against his jeans around his knees because he wanted to spread his legs wider than they were letting him, and he couldn't.

"I want you in bed," Sheppard groaned, shoving up Rodney's shirt even as he slid another slick finger inside. Fuck, how prepared had he been? Rodney didn't care, didn't care, could only make a short, choked out sound. "I want to see you with your ass in the air, bitching the whole time but shoving back anyway because all you want is cock. I want to watch you ride me in the morning and hear you whine. Ungh!" Okay, one-handed there, so maybe he was... yes! Condom rattle, slicking it on, maybe, please, God, it had been so long and it was too good to be real.

The head of John's dick bumped the back of his bare thigh, and then he could feel John's wrist, or something, moving, hopefully rolling the condom on, because Rodney rolled his hips back against John's fingers, clenching tight around them. Fuck, he wanted to feel the man's dick, even if he was an obnoxious prick. Just a fuck.

"Tell me you want it." Who would have thought Sheppard would be the one who talked when they fucked? "Tell me how you want me to give it to you. You want it slow and easy? Fast and hard? You want me to ride you into next week, McKay?"

"Ride me into next week, it's been too long, I want to know I've been fucked..." Hard and fast or fast and hard, anything as long as he was there on his hands and knees with Sheppard talking like that, finger fucking his ass like that. It didn't even matter that his dick was hanging in the wind -- he wanted it. The cold snapping against both sets of cheeks just made him frantically aware of the heat of Sheppard's hands, the way he felt when his fingers pulled out and his hardon slid between the globes of Rodney's ass. Then he pushed, and God, fuck, fuck, it _burned_ , and Rodney let out a sound that was way too reminiscent of his cat when she got in the way while he was cooking and he stepped on her tail, but it didn't stop Sheppard. He just pushed on through, and curled over Rodney's back, panting, a hand fisted on the decking beside them.

"Shit. Shit. Jesus, you're tight." Tight, and what he'd said had probably damn near driven Sheppard to busting from the sound of it.

But he wanted it. He wanted to feel it, wanted Sheppard that hard and far in him, wanted the other man pressed that tight against his back, plastered to him, so that Rodney could move back against him when he flexed his ass, squeezing around Sheppard even if he wasn't ready to do that yet. Anything to get him moving.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." The words were more or less a way to keep his cool, maybe, but then Sheppard was moving, and holy God, Rodney couldn't remember the last time anybody had nailed him like that. It was all steady, fast pistoning hips, a slam forward that made him gasp for breath, made him shudder with relief every time John pulled out and pushed back inside him. "Fuck, I knew, I knew, oh, Jesus, I knew you'd be like this."

This, bucking back to John, wanting more of it, and okay, maybe they didn't hate one another, maybe it was really all frustrated lust, and who cared when they were getting laid like this?

Rodney could put with so much shit for sex like that. The fact that Sheppard was a pussy about his shop, and he never had enough stock to keep himself supplied, it didn't matter as long as he could fuck like that, enough to make Rodney's breath catch in his throat with the force of the thrusts, the feel of one hand clutching hard at his hip, leaving his dick untouched and god, he was going to have to do it himself but that was hot, too.

It was _hot_ , reaching down, stroking himself while John fucked him like there was no tomorrow, hammering into him so hard Rodney wouldn't be able to sit down in the morning, and who cared? Nobody cared, nobody, especially not Rodney because he was tilting himself back, and his fingers stripped along his dick so fast and hard he was surprised he hadn't caught fire.

"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon...!" Sheppard's hand met his for a minute, mingled, fumbled, and then backed off, grabbing his hip and pulling hard because obviously Rodney had it under control. John's fingers gripped, clutched tight, and one thumb snuck, pulling at his ass cheek, and god, was John trying to watch his dick going in and out, because that was hot that was so fucking hot that Rodney didn't think he could have that thought and feel John move like that at the same time as he stroked himself off and survive it. He was going to die out in the cold in a gazebo getting fucking fucking fucked oh he was so fucked so fucked and his, and he, and he....

When Rodney had been a sixth year, he had built an atomic bomb for his science project.

He figured that even if he'd had weapons grade plutonium it probably wouldn't have gone off nearly as hard as he did. It hit like a burst, like a ball thrown at the back of his head, and he kept touching himself when his body was just shivering, kept stroking when there was nothing for his dick to do but twitch and ache like his ass was doing around John.

It took forever ( _no time at all_ ) before John was coming, too, fingers so hard on Rodney's hips that he'd probably be bruised for a week, and oh. God. Rodney didn't care, not even when Sheppard slumped over him, groaning quietly in a way that made Rodney shiver.

Maybe that was just the breeze.

"Okay," John mumbled finally, lips caressing over the knob of Rodney's spine near the nape. "Okay. So. Maybe not hate so much."

"Not hate so much," Rodney echoed softly, even though he was leaning awkwardly on his elbows and forearms. John was still dick-deep in him, and his shirt was hitched up and down, and his legs hurt from the fabric cutting into them. He couldn't help hissing when John pulled out, either.

"Um. I got a little enthusiastic." Which probably meant he was fucked raw, no surprise there. On the other hand, it had been really incredibly good. Rodney had no problems with sex like that. "Sorry. Here, I've got... Ah, geeze, no, it's damp, maybe they've got some napkins in where they had the...."

"I'm all for enthusiasm." Even if he felt cold and stretched out and soggier than a piece of floral foam supporting one of Ronon's sometimes ungodly creations in a vase.

Seriously. He was very good for a straight man, but Rodney just couldn't believe anyone had actually requested that tacky piece with the dried tobacco leaves.

"Well, maybe next time we could get enthusiastic somewhere warmer. You know. With a mattress." John was back, and there were napkins, wiping them up, lube, come, bodily fluids, whatever.

At least his ass was just slick, and not sticky. 

"I'm all for that. Your place or mine?" Rodney shifted, leaned on a hip against the tablecloth for a moment before he reached down to start sliding his pants back up. His heart was still hammering a little, so maybe body heat would keep him warm for a little while longer.

"Mine's closer," John decided.

"You have dogs!"

"Look, you're the one who asked, Florzilla."

"It was only polite. But we're going back to my place until you can convince me that your dogs won't smell sex and try to fuck my ass. I can assure you that my cats are well behaved." He squirmed, let John swipe over him with napkins one more time, and pulled his pants all the way on.

"Oh, yeah, right. I've heard about that orange monster with the tufty ears you keep. That giant cat jumping down on Mrs. Pinderschloss is what lost you the number one florist plaque for the county last year," John reminded, wadding up the napkins and, after eyeballing them, shoving them in his pocket while making a face. "He'd probably deball me with his claws!"

"He's really a nice cat. It's not my fault she smelled like fish to him. You'll be fine. The worst he'd do is... sit on your legs." Which could be pretty bad, given how much he weighed and how much heat he put out. Still, Rodney got to his feet, staying close to John, because he still looked hot and tempting.

It was definitely going to be his turn on top when they got back to his place. Even if it required handcuffs. He was sure he had some someplace.

John gave a huff of breath and snagged his beer bottle. "The size of that thing, he might break my legs! Seriously, McKay. I've at least trained Einstein not to jump up on the bed!"

"Einstein? You named your dog _Einstein_?" He didn't want to admit that he'd named his cat Redshift, or he'd never hear the end of it, but really. Einstein? Rodney reached to take the beer bottle from John. "We need to break out of here."

"Ah, yeah. About that." Okay, Rodney recognized that look of guilt. That look said, _There is more to this story than I am telling you, McKay, because I am an asshole_. Right. "Uh, not so much with the breaking. And yes, Einstein. That was a great movie!"

"Movie? What do you mean, movie?" He pulled his shirt down, generally trying to make himself look more like he hadn't just had the ride of his life. They were florists, sure, but everybody in the world didn't have to know they were out practicing 'floristry' together. Enemy florists. That was them.

"Seriously, McKay, what world do you live in? Doc Brown, Marty McFly, Einstein? _Back to the Future_?" Sheppard was marching back down the dock's pathway, one hand on the door's handle when he got there. "You coming?"

"It's not even locked?" He snapped it, and Rodney wasn't even sure whether he was angrier about that or about John, _Sheppard_ , naming a dog not after the scientist, but _Back to the Future_.

The _Puddlejumpers_ owner grinned back at Rodney over his shoulder. "Well. I didn't exactly know how all of this was gonna go down, McKay. You coming or what?"

"You, you... you seduced me under false pretenses!" Rodney growled. But there was nothing else to do but follow the man. "You scheming... florist!"

"Yeah, well. I figured if you thought it was locked, you'd be less likely to try pushing me over into the lake," John laughed, pulling open the door, and maybe he was right.

Maybe. Just a little.

"C'mon, McKay. Introduce me to Catzilla."

Catzilla, Florzilla. Rodney was sensing a disturbing trend towards tasteless movies from John, but he should have known. He should have know. He'd have to make use of those handcuffs and make John see some good science fiction sometime.

Like _Star Trek_. _Dr. Who_. _Babylon 5_.

For the time being, though, there were other, more important things to take care of, like avoiding the band's terrible rendition of _Keep Your Hands To Yourself_ and getting Sheppard home to do the exact opposite.

Everything else could wait.


End file.
